Grand Theft Auto: Streets of Chaos
by Hugopup Productions
Summary: A city of vice and sin, where corruption and power-plays are rampant. One man must take on heaven and hell in his quest for vengance, love, and milkshakes.
1. One

_Grand Theft Auto: Streets of Chaos_

_Fanfiction by El Tecolote_

_Disclaimer: Grand Theft Auto is property of Rockstar Games and Rockstar North. Names in this fan fiction are entirely fictional. Any similarities with any person, living or dead, are coincidental._

**Rating: Mature Audiences. For graphic violence, nudity, and vulgar language.**

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**Chapter One – The Recruit**

_**Bison City, USA**_

A city where law and order are a thing for the past. Liberty and justice are for the select few that can afford it. Alienated from mainland USA, it only sustains its privileges. With an economy thriving on prostitution, shady films, and other such black market deals, it has become a hideout for international mobs and terrorists, gangs, street fighters and vigilantes. And they each want a piece of the pie.

One of said citadels of organized crime is the Dominguez Estate, located on a mansion with a magnificent view of the harbor. The original Dominguez were Cuban exiles who scratched through for a living. Their first son, Juan Dominguez, forsaking all that was taught to him, went into organized crime and rose through the ranks of the Fernandez Mob, also Cubans. Eventually, Capo Fernandez passed away, leaving the job open. Dominguez took the job and assimilated both Dominguez and Fernandez clans into one organized and fatally efficient mob. Their money came from prostitution and drug traffic, as many of the other mobs. But their main asset was their black-arms deals, dealing revolutionary technology if the price was right, more importantly, was their human assets; these were shady individuals who worked exclusively for Dominguez, they were as mysterious as they were deadly, and that is why the Dominguez were so rich.

The rain beat down mercilessly against the tinted window pane as Juan Dominguez sat in his conference room, two of his most trusted lieutenants to his left and right, all were staring at a big screen that was being warmed up. "You're going to love the new guy, _jefe_." Said the one to the left, Sgt. Eduardo Diaz. At thirty, he was the youngest senior officer in the Dominguez Mob, his training consisted solely of ten years he spent in the jungles of Colombia, aiding both the FARCs and the Colombian Army for a price. "We have enough assets out there. And I don't want another one on the bankroll. I have to eat, you know." "This one is different, tell him, Jaime." Jaime was the other man, a highly-decorated intelligence specialist who was the leader of Castro's counter-surveillance commandos. "_Si_. We don't need to waste any money with this one on training. He is young and passionate, trained in unarmed and unarmed combat." "What is his name?" "We don't know where the hell he came from. His name is The Jackal. He has raised quite a lot of eyebrows." "That's what you told me about the other guy, and he was a fake." "This one's authentic. Ivan Illy'ch Gogol, La Sombra, The Hawk, and Blood Fist all give him excellent marks."

Now this did impress Don Dominguez. Gogol was the Russian Mafia's top-ranking sniper. He was a recipient of the Order of Lenin and of the Gold Star of a Hero of the Golden Union, for distinguished services with the KGB's Operations Directorate. The Hawk, La Sombra, and Blood Fist were similarly commemorated agents of chaos. The Hawk was a professional assassin that was caught plotting to kill Dominguez, and was promptly hanged. La Sombra was a Spanish-Irish soldier who worked with both the ETA and the IRA, despising the former for violence and the latter for peaceful. Blood Fist was a member of the Yakuza mob, who after acquiring immunity from the current leader, seceded from the land of the rising sun and now resided in Bison City. "Where is he now?" "He should be landing at the airport in twenty minutes, along with two friends of his." "Kill the friends, take him alive if possible. Don't let him get away."

"Yes, sir."


	2. Two

**Chapter Two:**

**Death of the Pauper**

There really was no cure for jet-lag, no matter how many times he traveled, thought The Jackal to himself. His real name had once been Esteban Franco, but since he took his new job and was a marked man, he shed his name for security and took an alias. He couldn't help but feel relaxed. In other places, you had to be extra careful, because you didn't know who was going to go up to you and shoot you. Here, everyone was dressed their part. And no one seemed to mind carrying a big gun around. He turned to his two companions, Alexei and Tatiana. Tatiana was the lovely daughter of Dmitriy Gogol, his former mentor and teacher back in Russia. Alexei was her fiancée. Both were adorable, and pleasant companions, and also excellent in their profession. Alexei was a smuggler of fine tastes, and Tatiana was an art forger. Both had met, worked together, and eventually fell in love. They begged to come down here, as a break from the European winter, and since there wasn't any real business to be done, a vacation was in order for all three. Tragically, this was not meant to be. Bullets exploded out of a nearby stairway, missing The Jackal and striking Alexei just below the chin. The bullets kept on firing and Franco jumped, pushing Tatyana out of the way. "No….Alexis…" Franco The Jackal felt her body go limp. "No, not this again." He gently dropped the woman to the floor and picked up the Colt .45 that Alexei carried around. "_Davisdanya, tovarisch._" He muttered, and quickly took off in a low sprint. One of the assassins was bent forward near the escalator, reloading. Not fast enough, thought the Jackal as he brought up the gun and fired two shots. If the shots didn't kill him, the fall certainly did. Another bullet struck the plant several yards from Franco, and he turned and saw another assailant with an MP5 pointed in his direction. "These guys couldn't shoot the broad side of a barn on a good day." He took shelter behind an overturned desk and fired at the second assailant, and smiled as the colt's bullets hit him straight in the chest. Running carefully to the body of the first hitman, slung the MP5 over his shoulder, and ran off into the parking lot, where he spied three cars pulling up and several men poured out, taking different entrances. Hiding behind an information sign, Franco waited until two more men ran into the building, then stepped out and dropped them both with hits on the head. "There he is!" A bullet narrowly missed hitting his temple, and rather than face 20 men with guns, he decided to make a fast getaway. A man was just about to get on board a PCP 600, one of the fastest bikes available. Rushing to the man, he clubbed him behind the head and jumped on the bike. "Sorry." The Jackal said, half-dismissively as he took off, a pack of angry hitmen behind him.

"YOU LOST HIM?" Roared Jaime Martinez into his telephone at his office, where he had briefly enjoyed a good Cuban cigar. "Sorry, sir, he evaded all of us." "Body count?" "We lost four men, but the target is down." "Target? I asked for two of them, the girl and the guy!" "The girl disappeared sir, we saw her fall along with her boyfriend." A string of obscenities flew out of the officer's mouth. "S-s-sir, I have an idea." "Tell me." "He has no money or weapons other than the ones he took from us. He has to keep a low profile, and we would know if he went to our enemies. He has no friends in this town or even on this country, have someone go to him and offer him money in exchange of services, and promise to help him find the culprit. Right now, he's disheveled, he won't be thinking very straight, tomorrow morning someone should visit him." "Good thinking, Jesus. I'll send a car for you tomorrow." "What? I meant someone else!" "It's my ass if this doesn't get done, and you should be happy that I trust you." "Yes, sir." _Click._ It was hard to get a job anymore, but life was grand for Martinez. He owned a mansion that was near his place of work, and he had an endless choir of beautiful women at his disposal. He pressed a button on his telephone, an intercom to his secretary. "Annie, call up Sabrina. Tell her to come to my office as soon as possible." Martinez then put on a CD of soft music the ladies these days seemed to love and poured two glasses of champagne.

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	3. Three

**Chapter Three – The Job**

The phone awoke Franco, who had had a horrible night. Almost by instinct, he reached for the gun and pointed at the door of the small room he had rented out for the night. "Hello?" "Turn on the news, _tovarsisch_." Knowing who the voice was, it couldn't have come at a worse time. He flipped on the cheap television set to find a newscast covering the previous' night's episodes. "The target was a young man by the name of Alexei Gorky, who was having dinner with his fiancée and an unknown third person. Gorky was murdered and his fiancée disappeared, along with the mysterious third man. Police reports four dead and one wounded from gunshot wounds fired by this mysterious character." Great, now the cops and the press were after him, thought the Jackal to himself. "I don't know what happened to her. I did all I could." "Relax. She is with me," growled Gogol. "It is a shame for Alexei, he was a brave lad. I am in the city now. Do not attempt to contact me. Make friends and get money, there are people watching your every move. I must go now. _Davisdanya_." Franco shut off the TV and then took a quick shower, afterwards going back to watch the news. He was a trained soldier, and death of a friend only momentarily halted him. The doorbell rang, and Franco reached for the gun. "Who is it?" "A friend. I am unarmed, I wish to talk business." Carefully, Franco yelled back, "Come on in!" and opened the door, hiding behind it. The man, a short and stocky man of mixed descent, walked in. As he went completely inside the room, the Jackal jumped out and stunned him, closing the door.

When the man, who by the ID on his wallet was named Jesus Gomez, came to be, Franco interrogated him. "So, Mr. Gomez, what brings you here?" Gomez reached for something behind his back, but Franco had already taken care of it. "I have kept your gun, insurance purposes." "Fine, I'll talk. I was sent here by the Dominguez family, we need you for a job." "How do you know about me?" "We saw you on the news." Franco's anger blinded his usually keen intelligence. "Do you know who was behind it?" "Yes, and we are sincerely sorry, but at least we could help you find out." "What is in it for me?" "A healthy reward plus satisfaction." "OK, I'll bite. I'll drive."

There was no sense in hiding a lot from this barbaric man, Gomez reasoned, and guided the Jackal to the Dominguez Estate. "Hard to believe a Cuban owns this." Franco muttered darkly. "Our boss is a very gifted man." "I'm sure he is. Who am I supposed to be meeting?" "Colonel Jaime Martinez. He'll brief you on your first mission." Franco was amazed, to say the least. He had come from a two-year stay in Moscow, and he hadn't seen houses this luxurious since a long time ago. After being led into a small office, Franco waited for several minutes before meeting the Colonel. His first impression was that of a strong man living in luxury, rugged skin and eyes that showed nothing, the eyes of an intelligence officer.  
"Good day, Mr….?"  
"Call me the Jackal."  
"Okay, Mr. Jackal, I trust Gomez told you about things here."  
"Pretty much. I do your dirty jobs, you pay me, you get me closer to the culprit."  
"They are not dirty jobs, they are…justice functions."  
"I'm sure they are, now let's cut the crap and tell me what my first mission is."  
Martinez handed him a large manila envelope. "Your mission is to find and eliminate this man. There is a car waiting outside as soon as you're ready."  
"Weapons?"  
"You'll be packing a Springfield Sniper. The rest is up to you. Good luck." Martinez left, shutting the door behind him.  
Franco opened the folder and began to analyze its contents. The first page was a full-length series of mug shots and photographs of the target. It was a fat and balding man, whose gait revealed him to be an alcoholic and a pervert. Franco wasn't mistaken and read the following on the sheets of paper.

**Name:** Gus Wilson

**Origin**: Atlanta, Georgia

**Known illegal operations:** Drug trafficking, prostitution, grand larceny, fraud, embezzlement, ten counts of rape, two counts of child molestation, and ringleader of a child pornography trading net.

**Base of operations: ****Wilson residence,** Suburban Bison city.

**Frequents****: Cloud 9**, notorious bar.

The rest of the document was trivial information, his sleeping and eating habits, he was recently divorced, stuff like that. Franco now had a reason. He considered child molesters criminals in the lowest rung of crime, even lower than genocidal lunatics. Pumped up, Franco left and gasped at his new car. It was a white Inferno, of the kind that is rarely seen anymore. It had good gas and could reach fantastic speeds. He climbed aboard and a GPS locator gave him instructions as to where he was. It was only noon, so he spent the day getting used to the city and its surroundings. It was a huge city, with its own divisions and subdivisions.

Finally, at around nine-thirty, Franco drove up to Cloud 9 and parked away from the club, where he found that an elegant tuxedo had been pressed and stored in the car, he slipped into it and then checked the briefing documents again. Wilson was going to drive up in about half an hour, in a trendy Mini Cooper. In a split-second, he saw a valet go out through the back entrance to relieve himself near some dumpsters. Franco made his move quickly; as the valet finished, he turned and was greeted by a blow from the butt of the rifle in his face, and dropped as if his legs disappeared from under his self. He then dragged the unconscious boy behind the dumpsters and changed into the valet's clothes. Then he went back up front, just in time to be greeted by Wilson. "Park this out in the back. And don't scratch it, or it's your ass." He said, tossing the Jackal, his face marked by darkness, the keys. Meanwhile, the Jackal parked the Mini Cooper just within sniping range. After that, he climbed out, walked back to the Inferno, changed into the tuxedo again, and went in through the main door.

It was a lavish _antro_, as nightclubs are known in this part of town. Dozens of bodies were dancing together like fickle flames, blurred by an impressive light show and heart-pounding music coming from the deejays at the very back. After an hour or so of merrily cajoling, it was time for business. The target was leaving the area, probably for a night of chronic masturbation. Franco stealthily followed. Half-drunk, Wilson staggered to the mini-cooper, which he just realized he had no keys to. By the time Wilson had fully comprehended what was going to happen, Franco went into position. He tossed the keys and loudly cocked the rifle. "Freeze!" "Who are you?" "I am Lust. One of the seven capital sins. I know what you did!" The Jackal fired a bullet at the ground, which missed deflecting into Wilson's knee by a mere fragment of an inch. "You're interested in my stuff? I'll get you a full year's subscriptions if you want, just leave me alone. I'll get you movies, anything!" Another bullet, purposefully missing. "I'm sorry if I hurt your daughter, she came onto me, I didn't know she was ten. I'm sorry!" He had just confessed. "Who sent you?" "No one you know." I took a step closer, putting the rifle down. "It's Dominguez, he's after my property! Here, I'll let you have it if you promise to let me go." "What kind of property?" "A house and condo on Liberty Beach." "OK, I got a deed right here. To what name should I make it?" "To MacCloud, James." I saw him sign a sheet of paper and put it back in his wallet. "It's yours if you give me the rifle." He turned, and light bounced off a metallic object he had in his back pocket. A gun, a small colt. At the range it was in, it could probably deal some damage, and I wasn't that willing to take a risk. I brought the rifle back up. "Wait! You promised you wouldn't kill me." "_I lied._" The trigger was pressed rapidly three times. Wilson fell, dead before hitting the ground, and the Jackal dragged his body into a dumpster.

Driving home, Franco took out the cell phone that had been given to him along with the tuxedo and speed-dialed 1. "Martinez here." "Mission accomplished. Who can I talk to about a new set of ID?" "You can talk to Pat O' Flanagan tomorrow morning about it. He is our lawyer for that sort of stuff." "Okay. Where's my reward?" "Your reward is the brand-new, snow-white Inferno that was given to you. Any personal belongings you kept from Wilson, you can keep. There is a safe house arranged for you on the outskirts of Liberty Beach. You have three days till your next assignment. Good bye."


End file.
